


Finally

by bigblueboxat221b



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gentleness, M/M, Self-Worth Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-15
Updated: 2018-06-15
Packaged: 2019-05-23 16:29:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14937848
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bigblueboxat221b/pseuds/bigblueboxat221b
Summary: Mycroft's had a bad day - worse than usual. Thank goodness Anthea thinks to call on DI Lestrade.





	Finally

Finally.

He was alone.

Jacket discarded, seated at his desk, Mycroft dropped his head, the heels of his hands digging into his eyes. His morning had been a certified nightmare and try as he might, he could not fade the memories.

For once, Sherlock had nothing to do with it.

As it turned out, a group of disgruntled former Government employees had decided to hold a sit-in protest outside the private offices of the Minister for Education. Unfortunately for Mycroft, he was trying to negotiate peace between two distinctly war-hungry foreign dignitaries in the offices next door.

The sit-in was the ‘sit and sing’ variation. Even solid wood doors could not suppress the sound of a dozen people singing ‘Do You Hear the People Sing’ at the top of their lungs.

With each chorus, the tension rose, and Mycroft was silently cursing the decidedly off-key group. They knew their rights; as they were on private property they were technically not disturbing the peace. Mycroft knew he could arrange their removal, if only he could contact someone. Anyone.

Therein lay the conundrum.

He could not leave these two men in the same room without a third party. By common agreement – one of a long list to even permit this meeting to take place – all three of them had left electronic devices out of the room. They were working with pens and paper, so he was unable to contact anyone and ask them to complain on his behalf. It was torture.

The result? He was sitting in a stuffy room with two disgruntled foreign Ministers and a background of enthusiastic revolutionaries as he tried to negotiate a deal that would literally mean life and death for perhaps a hundred thousand innocent people. His mind was working overtime, not only trying to manipulate both men but to do so in a language foreign to all three of them. It was another peculiarity of the meeting – all three of them spoke Greek, though none as a first language.

Someone had thought it would put them all on equal footing.

Someone was an idiot, Mycroft thought to himself in the blessed silence of his office, twisting his hands so he could massage his temples without removing the pressure on his eyes. Next time, he would just lock the two of them in a room and tell them they couldn’t come out until they’d resolved their differences.

It was more than just this meeting, Mycroft had to admit to himself. This was always a difficult week. Two decades had not eased the jolt when the calendar turned over and he was faced with the silent reminder of his past.

Another memory that would not fade. His wedding had been quiet and low key. Few had known about it – even then Mycroft had enemies. He had underestimated their dedication, however, and paid the price.

Only the death of his wife had made the papers, and then only as one name in a list of terrorism victims. The week long story had run longer than their marriage.

Her death had helped shape the detached persona he had cultivated. It was far easier to distance himself, to focus on his work. A small part of his mind acknowledged the need to save other lives in penance for the life he could not save. Not even Sherlock knew that, though he could surely have deduced it if he had bothered.

No, it was just the last straw, he thought wearily. The prickles behind his eyes were not unexpected. Increased pressure did not stave them off; the warm flood would not be held back. Without a sound, he acquiesced, relaxing the muscles of his wrists and allowing the tears to run down his cheeks.

The relief was purely physical, the pressure in his sinuses easing as he relented and blew his nose, discarding the tissues and returning his hands to his face. Emotionally, his despair was as heavy as ever. He no longer grieved for Helena; she was long gone, though the ghost of what might have been reared its head each year at this time.

This was more. More personal, more deeply rooted.

It was fear.

Above all else, Mycroft feared the rest of his life, as it was set out. He could see it, following the same path as so many others. Years of service, if he was lucky, then a quiet retirement function, a move out of London to some quiet cottage in Sussex or the Lake District, and…nothing. He had no significant interests outside his work, no contacts other than the extensive list of professionals who either feared or needed him.

He would be alone.

Lonely.

It was not something Mycroft was unfamiliar with; since he was a young child, solitude had been his natural milieu. While he enjoyed his own company, the idea of living the rest of his life with nobody else significant was…distressing. It was not an active choice, and he had no idea how to change it, how to let someone in.

Submitting himself to the torrent of emotion, Mycroft felt his shoulders shake, his breathing thickening as he sobbed silently in the quiet of his office.

 The smallest of mercies, his privacy. At least nobody would see him in such a vulnerable state. Only Anthea had permission to enter his office without an appointment, and his afternoon was mercifully clear of face to face meetings.

It was for all these reasons Mycroft missed the quiet click of his door opening, the rush of the heavy wood against the thick carpet. His breathing obscured the catch of breath as eyes settled on his hunched shoulders, the quiet press of the door closed once more. He missed the shuffle of heavy boots across the length of his office, the nervous shove of weathered hands into denim pockets.

The voice was unmistakable.

“Mycroft?”

The named man froze, hands still covering his face, shoulders tensing under his waistcoat. He recognised the voice, cursed himself for his inattention. Even here, his inner sanctum, he was not entirely protected. The wound was deeper than he would have liked to admit but he pressed it down as always.

Taking a deep breath, Mycroft prepared to face Gregory Lestrade.

The detective beat him to it.

“No, don’t move,” Greg said, and the slightly different direction told Mycroft he’d moved. Standing beside Mycroft’s desk. Within touching distance, if Mycroft reached out his arm.

“Anthea called me,” Greg continued quietly. His voice was calm but hesitant. “She didn’t tell me…I’m not entirely sure why she called me. I mean, me specifically…and I’m not sure what happened either.” _To put you in this state_ , was implied but not voiced.

Mycroft was strangely grateful for this small consideration. He remained silent. The tears had abated – thank heavens – but his heart had started thrumming faster, the steady beat against his chest certainly faster than it had been. He waited with bated breath, wondering what Gregory would say.

So far, he had been considerate and hesitant. What else would he show of himself?

“I…jeez, I don’t know…” Mycroft could almost hear him shifting from side to side, the nervous habit clearly picked up as a child.

There was a deep breath. “I’m assuming you don’t want to talk about…whatever it was. I’m also assuming this isn’t Sherlock related as we’re not in a hospital or a police station.”

In spite of himself, Mycroft felt his face twitch. The small inside knowledge comforted him somehow. _He knew it would be amusing._

“Since I haven’t heard you talk about much apart from work, I’m going to assume it’s a work thing, or at least part of it is. Which means you can’t talk about it anyway.”

Mycroft could hear Greg’s voice becoming more confident as he spoke his thoughts aloud.

His breathing was shallow, now, the thud of his heart even more pronounced in his ears. Gregory was everything Mycroft had deduced he might be. Most notably, he was unruffled by the unprecedented sight of an emotional Mycroft Holmes.

“Look,” Greg said now, and his voice had sunk back into the comfortable confident tone Mycroft recognised from observing him at work. It was different though – slower, warmer somehow. Greg kept talking, and Mycroft made himself concentrate.

“Look,” Greg repeated himself, “I’m just going to sit over here,” his voice faded out, and Mycroft pictured him turning slightly to the sofa on the side wall, “and wait for you. When you’re ready, I’ll be here.”

Mycroft didn’t move, listening intently to the rustle of fabric as Greg moved away from him. The footfalls were inaudible but Greg’s sigh, coupled with the creak of the leather sofa, told Mycroft that Greg had settled himself, presumably to wait.

Wait for him.

Mycroft’s mind reeled. Gregory was being...

Hold on.

The sofa was not leather. Yet the sound of leather shifting was unmistakable as Greg had lowered himself onto it. Confusion reigned until Mycroft’s brain offered him the only other explanation. It was certainly possible, but the mental image was difficult to reconcile with the usual cheap suits and off centre ties the DI favoured.

It was impossible for Mycroft to stop his head slowly lifting, eyes blinking even against the gentle light of his lamps. When the fireworks faded and his bleary eyes focused, the view was even better than he had imagined. The image was too much to allow even a hint of the shame he had previously felt to come to the fore.

Greg was wearing leathers. He was dressed to ride a motorbike – heavy boots, well worn (well fitting) jeans, and a leather jacket far newer than anything else, hence the creaking. His silver hair was touselled, somewhere between ‘I was wearing a helmet’ and ‘I ran my fingers through this mess’.

Good Lord.

He was gorgeous.

Mycroft stared, taking in all the details he could register. Somehow he was standing; why had he done that?

Greg didn’t move; he was still sitting on the edge of the sofa, elbows on knees, eyes pinned to Mycroft, soft and…something.

Something stirred in Mycroft, a long buried memory. The feeling of being on the receiving end of…his mouth twisted with frustration as he searched for the word. It was unfamiliar, a curiously uncomfortable sensation in his usually ordered mind.

Kind.

Gregory’s eyes were _kind_.

At the recognition of that word, a flood of others rushed in, related words, all applicable.

Compassionate. Patient. Understanding. Comforting.

Mycroft’s heart heaved at the words. Emotions he barely recognised were all there in Greg’s face. Directed at him, as he waited for Mycroft to speak. Or move. Impossibilities, as he tried to work his way through the answering well of emotion in his own body. They were equally uncomfortable, and he fought to identify each.

The pain was familiar, though he had no idea why it was now so raw and sharp.

The worthlessness, one of his most shameful secrets, welled against his desperate attempts to quash it. Who was he to deserve such gentle kindness? Greg barely knew him, knew nothing of his deeds, the decisions he’d had to make. The people he’d lost.

Mycroft felt his face move first, crumpling in as he felt the overwhelming despair swamp him. He turned, humiliated at his lack of control, willing Gregory to leave him to his misery.

He did not. Mycroft heard a muttered, “oh, shit,” the rasp of a heavy zipper, a thud as heavy fabric hit the side table. Sound was rapidly being obliterated by his own rushing blood and the rasp of laboured breath in his throat. Mycroft closed his eyes, surrendering to his weak body, ignoring the agony of humiliation. He was resigned to his fate, and could only hope that Greg would never mention this.

When tentative fingers slid onto his shoulder, Mycroft startled, tensing.

“Don’t…” he whispered.

“I’m not leaving you here like this,” Greg said, the rumble of his voice cutting through the sounds of Mycroft’s own body.

“Why?” Mycroft said, still turned away. The heat from Greg’s hand was seeping into his skin, another memory rising to the surface, adding even more to his swirling mind.

“Christ, Mycroft…you have to ask…”

At the gentle exasperation, the warmth and affection, Mycroft buckled. His knees gave, fingers grasping for his desk. Arms encircled him, around shoulders and waist, holding him up even as he sagged. Blindly, Mycroft turned into the body pressed to his side, drawing his hands up to his face again. His subconscious was still trying to hide itself. Desperation incarnate.

Mycroft didn’t know if he was being rocked, or his body was shaking. Was the rumble he felt his own pathetic moans or soothing noises from Gregory? It was impossible to tell. Time lost meaning as his body wracked itself, wringing every tear and sob from him. His world was sensory – the hot burn of his raw throat, cold air in his lungs, wetness on his face, soaking the cotton under his cheek. And through it all, the arms held him steady, firm and constant.

He gave himself up to it.

When at last Mycroft’s analytical mind came slowly back to him, he realised exactly what had happened. The realisation was mortifying. Even as his body returned to itself, Mycroft felt his breathing quicken, muscles tightening in panic as his mind debated flight or fight.

“Breathe with me, Mycroft.”

The words were quiet, undemanding but firm. As they repeated, guiding him, Mycroft found himself following the gentle commands. It was so much easier than thinking.

In, out. Simple. Unthreatening. He was feeling better, surprisingly. His lungs pulled the air in, matching Greg’s rhythm until they were breathing in tandem.

“Better?” Greg murmured.

Mycroft nodded, a tiny stuttering action, barely visible but discernible against the flesh. As his deep breathing became autonomic, Mycroft registered another calming sensation. Something was passing in slow circles over his lower back, the counter rhythm centring him as well. He focussed on it, drawing the gentle warmth into his spine, along his limbs. It felt like Gregory was offering a part of himself.

“Why?” Mycroft asked again. He felt the arms around him loosen, but he did not step away. This conversation was unsettling, and he needed the closeness, the reassurance of physical touch. Without his leather jacket, Greg’s cotton t-shirt was barely discernible.

Greg’s arms tightened again, and he didn’t speak for a long, considered pause. When he did, his voice held a certainty Mycroft had not heard earlier.

“Because I’ve seen you give so much of yourself, and nobody ever seems to offer you anything in return,” Greg replied finally. “Because you deserve someone to show you kindness.” His hand was stroking circles against Mycroft’s back again. “And consideration, and empathy, and a whole lot of other things I don’t really have the words for.”

The slow, sweeping circles were calming, helping Mycroft temper his emotional response to Greg’s words. His breathing had fallen into the same rhythm, slow and deep. Calming.

“I…” Mycroft tried to speak but words failed him.

Greg spoke instead, as though he could read Mycroft’s mind. His voice was gentle but firm.

“You are worthy of care, Mycroft.”

When Mycroft made no reply, Greg stepped back, taking hold of his biceps.

Mycroft knew he was shaking. There was nothing he could do about it, the gentle quivering an automatic reaction to this assault on his carefully constructed defences. Nobody had ventured close enough to see them properly in years, let alone brave an attempt.

Until Greg.

Brown eyes met frightened blue, holding them safely.

“You are worthy, Mycroft.” The words were soft but insistent. “You are worth my kindness, everyone’s kindness.”

Mycroft ached to believe him. He felt his heart clench as Greg repeated his words, quiet intensity in each syllable.

“But I don’t…”

Closer, but Mycroft still couldn’t find the words. Even in his own head it was muddled, the emotions themselves clouding his usual erudition. He frowned, pleading with Greg to understand.

“We have all the time in the world,” Greg said quietly. “I want to take all the time in the world.” He smiled. “If you’ll let me.”

“I would…that would be…” Mycroft tried, swallowing hard. He took a deep breath. “Yes. Please.”

Greg’s smile was like the sunrise, bathing Mycroft once again in the warmth Greg offered so freely. His face was warm; Mycroft’s palm settled there as naturally as their synchronised breathing.

The touch of lips on lips was a soft promise, to protect and cherish. While Mycroft remained unconvinced of Greg’s assertion, his certainty was intriguing. Mycroft found himself yearning to believe it, to take on Greg’s unwavering belief in him. Right now, it was enough that they were here.

Mycroft sighed, pressing his forehead to Greg’s. His heart was calm, eyes dry, breathing deep and controlled.

Finally.


End file.
